A Lynn Story

I want to tell a story about my friend, Lynn. It's a good story, and because it's one of my stories, it involves poop.

A few years ago, a bunch of us went on vacation to this farmhouse from hell in upstate New York. This house had no AC, a crazy landlady who drove her golf cart like it was a Carrera, and leeches in the pond. Those were just a few of the highlights that were not mentioned when we rented it.  During this time, New York was also experiencing one of the worst heat waves in its history.

Rather than load up 6 adults, 5 kids, and 1 dog and head back to Maryland, we decided to make the best of it. So the two smart adults in the group left in their air conditioned car to go to the air conditioned store and get supplies, leaving me frying bacon in a kitchen with absolutely no cross ventilation, while simultaneously keeping an eye on Beckett (then 3) and his cousin, Poppy (2). The bedrooms all had window units, so the other smart adults had retreated to their rooms.

I heard Poppy use the potty like a big girl and mentally crossed that prompt off my to do list. A few minutes later, I realized that the quiet background noise of two toddlers contentedly playing together had escalated into the sort of maniacal laughter you only hear when something has gone completely wrong - or, in their little minds, completely right.

And what the hell WAS that splashing sound?

I peek around the corner and see a tsunami of poopy water pouring out of the powder room and down the hall. Since this farmhouse was built in the 1800's, nothing is level. So water is essentially pooling in huge puddles everywhere. Poppy and Beckett are beyond delighted, splashing merrily in what to them must look like mud. I'm frozen, as they laugh hysterically at the never ending flood of shit water, and all around me is the sizzling sound of cooking bacon intermingled with cheerful splashes.

And then Poppy slips and face plants. Laughter instantly turns to tears.  More importantly, I smell bacon burning.

"Oh, HELL NO!" I did not just spend thirty minutes cooking bacon in that steaming kitchen for it to burn.  

So I screamed. I screamed loud enough to be heard over the splashing,and the crying, and the constantly running toilet, and the sizzling bacon, and the window air conditioning units. I did not have to scream over the sound of the dishwasher (it was broken), or the sound of the washing machine (also broken).

Lynn and Horse appeared. Horse instantly starts trying to stop the flood of water before it hits the living room.  I'm flipping bacon like a short order cook on crack, because it WILL NOT BURN.  And Lynn, despite the agonized look on her face, assesses the situation and jumps right in.

"Come here, guys," she calls, wading over to Poppy and Beckett, "Bath time!"

She takes their tiny, shit covered hands in her own immaculate ones and leads them up the steps to the tiny 1960's, blue-tiled bathroom.  Then she scrubbed those kids from top to bottom, while I finished the bacon and helped Horse with the cleanup.

Cause that's how Lynn rolled.  She hated sticky messes, finger painting could send her straight over the edge, and I don't think she ever changed one of my kids' diapers in their lives.  But she knew damn well we weren't eating burnt bacon, and if that meant that she had to clean a bunch of toddlers covered in their own feces, then that was what she was going to do.  And no sense complaining about it.

But I'm pretty sure she flipped the landlady off before we left.